


It Will Not Be Because of Me

by tardigrape



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geraskier Week, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but he is also really clueless how to deal with them, mild spoilers for The Ends Beginning, monster hunt, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22974805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigrape/pseuds/tardigrape
Summary: "What’s wrong?”Geralt turns this question over in his mind. What, indeed? That he allowed this fool human to follow him in the first place? That he lulled himself into a sense of security because drowners and nekkers and harpies hadn’t managed to make off with him? That he barely put up a fight when the vulnerable, human man tagged along while Geralt stalked a fucking fiend? That if Geralt had been a fraction of a second slower, if he’d let his focus waver even the tiniest bit, Jaskier would have been impaled on the beast’s horns, would be cold and lifeless on the ground instead of sitting here beside Geralt, his brow furrowed in worry? That his touch on Geralt’s skin is rousing some feeling in Geralt’s chest, and until today Geralt didn’t even know he could feel such a thing, much less that it was somehow connected to Jaskier?What’s wrong, indeed?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 122





	It Will Not Be Because of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [yespolkadotkitty](https://yespolkadotkitty.tumblr.com/) and [slipperyseamen](https://slipperyseamen.tumblr.com/) for the beta!
> 
> And huge thanks to [geraskierweek](https://geraskierweek.tumblr.com/) for curating such a lovely collection!

The coin is good, that’s for sure.

Geralt tells himself it’s the coin that’s making him take this contract. And it’s a believable lie—the aldermen of four villages have taken up a collection just to pay the first half upfront, with more promised if Geralt will return two weeks after the beast is slain, when they will have had opportunity to procure more. That kind of coin will not only give him a bit of a break, but will allow him to stock up on some much-needed items, including some new armor (his current leathers are in terrible repair).

So yes, he tells himself, he’s doing this for the coin.

And yes, it’s also for the people. The four villages have been cut off from the rest of the Continent, unable to cross through the forest that divides their little hamlet from the rest of civilization. No one who has dared brave the road in the last half-year has come back, but whispers abound of a great beast, larger than a house, its thundering hoofbeats shaking the ground and its cries splitting the air. Geralt senses their worry, their fear, not only of the beast, but of the misery in which they will die when they are unable to trade their goods at market come spring.

But in truth, if Geralt is being honest with himself—which, really, only the tiniest, niggling little part of him is, and he can almost, almost shut it up—Geralt misses the fight.

Sure, he’s fought things in the past several years. Drowners, nekkers, ghouls, endregas. Even trickier ones like harpies and wyverns. But those fights were simple. Easy. Over before they really began.

Geralt wasn’t made for those fights. Rather, he was, but if the worst the world had to offer were drowners and nekkers, Geralt and his kind wouldn’t exist. Geralt has been forged and honed for calculated killing, for winning despite unfathomable odds, for fights that push even witchers to their limits. This fight will require preparation. Focus. Finesse. Maybe even a potion or three. Geralt hasn’t swallowed a potion in years. Not since—

“When are we going after the thing?” Jaskier’s cheerful voice is perky, nearly lilting.

Geralt growls. “You’re not coming.”

Jaskier sighs and rolls his eyes. “Not this again. If I don’t see the fight I can hardly describe it, much less immortalize it in song.”

“This fight doesn’t need to be described.” Geralt won’t let the word “immortalize” fall from his lips. As if he didn’t have enough to do to prepare for a fight against a fiend without wondering how the people would remember it down through the ages.

But Jaskier makes a sound rather like, “Psssshhhhhh,” waving a hand dismissively. “We’ve had this argument before, remember? I always win in the end.”

“Not this time.”

“Yes, yes, you always say that. I still always win in the end. So maybe let’s just skip the argument this time and get on with the hunting fierce beasts?”

Geralt glares, but Jaskier just smiles brightly back at him, and Geralt knows he’s already lost, already given in. So he grunts and turns, heading toward the edge of the village, and Jaskier scrambles after him.

In no time they reach the cottage just outside the edges of the village. Geralt knocks on the door as Jaskier prattles away behind him. “We’re hunting a fiend in a house? I didn’t think monsters lived in houses, generally.”

“Not hunting yet.” Geralt raises his fist to knock again, but the door is pulled open.

“Yes?” Before them stands a young woman, fair-haired and dark-eyed, and Geralt hears her small intake of breath and catches the whiff of sour fear she gives off at the sight of him looming in her doorway. He quickly drops his fist to his side.

“You’re the herbalist?” Geralt asks. “Alderman told me you might have some supplies I need.”

“Oh. Oh yes. Of course. Please come in.” She steps back to allow them to enter, her eyes flicking twice to Jaskier.

The cottage is small but homey, with a bed in one corner and a stove in another, bundles of herbs and flowers dangling from the ceiling.

“Lovely place, miss,” Jaskier says, his voice utterly dripping with honey. “Quite cozy.”

“Oh. Thank you. Can I help you?” The scent of her fear abates slightly.

“Oh, thanks, but I’m with him.”

“You’re…” She looks back and forth between them. “The two of you are…”

“Can I see the herbs you’ve got on offer?” Geralt cuts in. He tries to ignore Jaskier’s hungry expression, tries not to notice the musky scent of his sudden arousal.

“Of course.” The herbalist indicates an array of boxes, bags, and tied bundles along a wall. “If there’s something you need that I don’t have, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”

Geralt nods and begins picking through the plants, trying to tune out the conversation Jaskier strikes up with the woman. Jaskier asks her how she came to be an herbalist, and if she likes it, and what else she likes, and which are her favorite flowers. And the woman eats it up, giggling and sighing and giving off a powerful scent of lust. Geralt suppresses a growl in his throat.

He lays out the ingredients he needs and clears his throat loudly, breaking the flirtations. The woman steps over to see his selections. “This is quite a lot,” she remarks.

“Fiend’s a big job,” Geralt responds. “How much?”

But she shakes her head. “No coin between us, witcher. Just get rid of that monster.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. He gathers the ingredients up and makes for the door. “Let’s go, Jaskier.”

“I’ll, ah…” Jaskier’s gaze flits between Geralt and the herbalist. “I’ll meet you back at the inn, all right?”

Geralt sighs, pushing open the door, as Jaskier turns back to the herbalist, leaning toward her so much he’s in real danger of falling over.

Geralt refuses to think about this over the next several hours. He doesn’t think about the scent of Jaskier’s arousal when he met that woman as he lays out the ingredients for each potion. He doesn’t think about how the blue of his eyes deepened when he looked at her as he digs mortar and pestle and alembic out of his saddlebags. He definitely doesn’t think about what they’re doing now as he crushes leaves and flowers to dust, grinding them so hard the pestle is in danger of cracking.

Fuck. He needs to focus. Geralt closes his eyes and breathes slowly in and out, clearing his head of maddening, irrational thoughts about a maddening, irrational person. With each deep, slow breath the distraction of Jaskier recedes into the background, replaced by the task before him. By nightfall, potions and oils are simmering and steaming, spreading a pleasant, floral scent through the room.

What is noticeably _not_ in the room is Jaskier. Geralt hones his focus as he lights the lamps, refusing to let himself be distracted by the bard’s absence. In fact, he could even see it as a blessing. The fight with the fiend won’t be an easy one. He’ll do better if he can face the beast alone, without a charge to watch out for.

Geralt has very nearly convinced himself that he is actually happy for Jaskier’s continued absence when the musky scent of him, thick with sex, wafts into the room, shortly followed by the man himself. He throws open the door, kicks it closed merrily behind him, and flops onto a chair, his doublet entirely unbuttoned, his cheeks brightly pink, his lips deeply red, his hair disheveled, a wide grin on his face. “Geralt,” he sighs, “why have we never visited herbalists before?”

“No need before.” Geralt turns down the heat under the alembic as he corks a bottle. He tries not to inhale too deeply, tries not to let the smell of Jaskier’s sex-flushed body overwhelm his senses. He clenches a fist. “Why are you back?” 

“Had to come back, didn’t I?” Jaskier levels a look at him. “You’d leave without me if I didn’t. Make me miss all the fun.”

“Not all, clearly.”

“Well. All right. I did have _some_ fun.” Jaskier actually flushes, damn him. Geralt turns away, intently decanting a Blizzard potion into a vial. “But I’m not missing your biggest fight yet. When do we leave?”

Geralt shakes his head. So much for his focused fight. “Dawn.”

“Better get to sleep soon then, yeah?” Yawning, Jaskier stretches languidly, sheds his doublet and trousers, and crawls into the bed.

Geralt sighs and sits in the now vacant chair, sliding his sword from its sheath. He dabs some relict oil onto a cloth and begins coating the blade as he listens to Jaskier’s breathing become deep and even.

This is stupid. He should drag Jaskier back to the herbalist and slam the door on the two of them. Let the bard get up to his lustful ministrations while Geralt does what he was hired to do, what he was made to do. They should each stick to what they’re good at—Jaskier to people, Geralt to monsters.

So why does the thought of shoving Jaskier back into the arms of that woman leave Geralt nauseated and cold?

He runs the cloth back down the blade, noting that it glints a rainbow sheen in the lamplight. His potions are brewed, the vials all stoppered, packed neatly in the bag that will hang from his belt. There is nothing left to do but rest, prepare his body to fight.

He sighs as he turns down the lamps, then slides into bed next to Jaskier. His eyes close, the familiar warmth of Jaskier’s body pulling him into sleep.

Thin morning light slants into the room as Geralt opens his eyes to find blue eyes staring at him from Jaskier’s eager face. “Morning, sunshine!” Jaskier chirps. “Let’s go slay a fiend!”

Geralt sits up as Jaskier bounds out of the bed. Where does the bard get so much energy? One might have thought his exertions the previous day would have left him drained, but he buzzes around the room, humming under his breath, as he pulls on clothing and tucks a pen behind his ear.

Geralt stands and catches Jaskier by the shoulder. “Listen,” he says, feeling a warmth spread up his arm from the touch, “when we get there, I need you to stay back. Don’t let the fiend see you. Don’t get anywhere near it. Whatever you do, don’t look into its red eye. Find a ledge or a rock or something and hide, all right?”

Jaskier tilts his head. “I’ll be fine, Geralt, don’t worry.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt growls. “Fiends are vicious, they heal quickly, and they can kill with one strike. This isn’t a request. Stay back when we find it.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rise. “All right, I will.” He holds up his hands. “I promise.”

Geralt looks deep into blue eyes, hoping to find some reasonable sense of fear in Jaskier’s expression, but Jaskier just looks hopefully back at him, his eyes large, the edges of his lips turned up in a smile. Geralt growls and turns away. He shrugs into his armor, gathers his potion vials, and slings his sword over his back. At least the smell of sex on Jaskier has diminished somewhat. He pushes open the door to their room and leaves the inn, walking with long strides. He doesn’t wait for Jaskier to catch up.

The walk to the place in the road where the fiend has been sighted is invigorating, pushing blood into Geralt’s muscles, warming him up for the dance of death he is about to perform. He hears Jaskier trotting behind him, his breath coming quick and deep, and Geralt speeds his steps. Maybe he can leave Jaskier far enough behind that this fight will be done by the time he reaches the spot.

But no, Jaskier dogs his heels, sometimes taking quick running steps to catch up, all the way to the place where the ground is furrowed with deep claw marks on both sides of the road.

“Get back!” Geralt says, one hand pushing Jaskier behind him as the other draws his sword out of its sheath. “It’s close.”

The ground beneath their feet trembles even as the words leave his lips, and Jaskier, thankfully, goes stock still for a moment before stepping lightly backward.

“I’ll find a place to watch,” he murmurs, his voice low, as Geralt digs vial after vial out of his belt, tipping each one into his mouth. Blizzard, Thunderbolt, and Full Moon hit his tongue, one after the other, and course through his veins, setting his nerves to tingling. The sounds of the forest, the scents on the wind, even the feel of the breeze on his skin all become sharper as the potions take effect.

Geralt turns his head, listening and sniffing the wind. There, to the southeast. The beast is stirring. Across the road Jaskier is ducking into the cleft of a rock. Protected, but with a wide field of view. Geralt can’t help but admire the choice. He turns his attention back to the monster.

A distant tremble becomes a pounding and then a thundering. With an ear-splitting crash, the fiend breaks through the trees. It stands higher than twice Geralt’s own height, its shoulders the width of three horses. Two great branching antlers sprout from its head. Its razor-like teeth are bared in a snarl, its massive claws digging at the soil beneath its feet. A stench of moss and decay clings to its matted fur, which ripples atop thick muscles. And its most dangerous feature, the glowing red eye in the center of its forehead, fixes on Geralt.

Geralt looks quickly away. Even witchers are not immune to the hypnosis of the eye of a fiend. Instead, he feels the beast’s approach, the ground shaking with every bounding step. He readies his blade, and as the creature lowers its head, Geralt rolls out of the way, slashing at its ankles as he does so.

He jumps to his feet, turning as the fiend shrieks and skids to a halt. He has bloodied it, but the wounds are already knitting closed. Geralt huffs a breath through clenched teeth and charges before the beast can come after him again.

This time his sword pierces rather than slashes, darting into the flesh of the creature’s flank. It screams and backs away, swiping at Geralt with massive claws. He spins out of the way, then circles back, landing another blow against the beast’s haunch. The fiend kicks out, sending blood droplets flying. Geralt jumps out of the way of its claws, spinning blood off his blade.

The fiend faces him and ducks its head, shaking its antlers at him. He points the tip of his sword at it as he crouches, readying for the strike. The fiend paws twice at the ground and charges, fangs bared. Geralt stands his ground as long as he dares, slicing at its chest as he tucks into a roll at the last possible moment.

Geralt springs to his feet and whirls, blade raised, but the fiend is no longer coming for him. It faces away, its head lowered, pawing the ground with one great, clawed foot, focused on its prey.

_Jaskier_. He stands before the fiend, hands dangling limp at his sides, mouth hanging open, staring glassy-eyed into the beast’s red, hypnotic eye.

Something twists hard in Geralt’s gut, and he knows he has about two seconds before Jaskier is impaled on the beast’s great horns. His brain does some lightning-fast calculations even as his body is reacting on instinct, closing the distance between himself and the bard. He crashes into Jaskier with his full momentum, sending him flying, even as the fiend barrels down on the spot where the bard had stood.

Geralt’s senses are shot through with the white spark of pain as the beast’s horn catches him in the shoulder, its tip piercing through flesh and into bone, hooking him and lifting him bodily into the air. Even with the potions coursing through his veins, this is enough to make him take serious notice, but he’ll have to worry about that in a minute, because he’s arcing up over the monster’s back as it shakes its head. Geralt twists, freeing himself from the horn, its point ripping through even more of his flesh, and lands astride the beast’s shoulders.

The fiend roars, the sound rumbling through Geralt’s body, but it can’t reach up to lift him off. The heady rush of adrenaline makes Geralt giddy, the surety of his win closing on them both, and a wicked grin parts his lips as he rears back, both hands on his sword’s pommel, and drives the blade deep into the monster’s flesh.

The beast screams again, kicking beneath Geralt, but he stands, his sword still buried in the creature’s back. He adjusts his grip on the pommel and kicks himself off to the side, his grip still tight. The blade carves a deep chasm down the fiend’s ribs, spilling hot, thick blood out in a torrent as Geralt rides the wound all the way to the ground.

The creature’s labored breaths come hard, loud, and fast. It stumbles twice, shakes its head, and collapses. Dark blood spreads in a pool around it. To be certain of the kill, Geralt drives his sword deep into its throat. Blood bubbles from the wound, then stops. The thing stills.

Geralt does not stop to catch his own breath. He hurries to the small figure lying in a heap mere meters away from the carcass of the beast. His sword clatters to the ground as he drops to his knees and rolls the bard over.

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice comes out strangled and too high. “Can you hear me?”

“Mmm.” Jaskier’s eyes are closed, but he smiles. “Did you win?”

Geralt lets out a long breath. “The fiend is dead.”

“Knew you could do it.” Jaskier reaches up and pats his shoulder, sending fiery pain down Geralt’s arm. Geralt hisses in a breath, and Jaskier’s eyes fly open. He sits up quickly. “Oh. Oh Geralt. Oh gods.”

Geralt turns, as if he can hide the mess. “I’m fine.”

“You are not remotely fine.” Jaskier’s eyes are wide, roving over not just his arm but also his face, lingering on his eyes.

Oh. His eyes. Geralt looks away, turns away, hides his face. The rush from the potions is already beginning to recede, his senses returning to normal. In a few minutes he’ll be back to the Geralt Jaskier knows. Just a few minutes, that’s all he needs. A couple of minutes and he’ll be fine.

But Jaskier scrambles around, on hands and knees, peering into his face. “Geralt,” he breathes. “Oh, Geralt, what happened? Are you dying?”

Geralt closes his eyes and shakes his head, knowing that, even if his ink-dark eyes are no longer visible, there is no hiding his pale skin, the black veins snaking across it. “I’m not dying.”

“Then what…”

“The potions.” Geralt grits his teeth, the pain in his shoulder beginning to increase as the effects of the potions recede. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

But warm hands cradle his face, turn it. “Geralt, look at me,” Jaskier commands. Geralt blinks his eyes open to find Jaskier’s own blue ones staring back at him. “Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, his eyes roving over Geralt’s face. “Oh, you are _magnificent_.”

Geralt’s breath catches, a strange feeling blossoming in his chest. He looks back at Jaskier. Jaskier, who should, like any normal human, recoil in horror, the look on his face mirroring the stink of his fear, running to put as much distance as possible between himself and the monstrous witcher. But Jaskier just watches him with wide eyes, mouth open in an awed smile, thumbs tracing the lines of dark veins that mark Geralt’s skin. As the last effects of the potion drain and Geralt’s senses return to normal, he catches a whiff, not of the musky blood of the fiend, or the coppery blood of his own wound, or the alchemical sweat stench of his own exertions, but a spicy scent, familiar yet strange.

Oh dear gods. Jaskier is _aroused_.

Before Geralt can form any coherent reaction to this knowledge, the edges of his vision begin to darken. Shit. The wound. He sinks back on his heels, fumbling at the potions on his belt. Jaskier’s fingers grab at his armor as his vision begins to swim.

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice is high. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”

“Golden potion,” Geralt chokes out.

He wishes he had more awareness of Jaskier’s hands at his waist, but Geralt is falling, sinking backward. Dimly, as though from far away, he feels a vial pressed to his lips, feels the liquid run down his throat.

His senses return, along with the pain in his shoulder, as the Swallow begins to work. He clenches his teeth against the pain as he sits up, shaking his head to clear it. Immediately slender hands are on him, one against his back and one on his good shoulder, and he realizes Jaskier is trying to support him, trying to help him.

“I’m all right.” He looks sideways at the bard. “Really.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is strange, choked. “I know I don’t have a witcher’s senses, but even I can tell you’re not all right.” His eyes flick to Geralt’s injured shoulder. Geralt resists the urge to try to hide the wound, as if he’s an animal.

“I will be all right, then,” Geralt concedes. “I heal quickly.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jaskier replies. “But I’ll feel better if we can clean and dress that wound. Can you stand?”

Geralt grunts and pushes himself up. His feet remain under him. Good.

“Can you walk?” Jaskier persists.

Geralt takes a step forward, but his knees buckle. Jaskier is underneath him fast as lightning, catching him and holding him up. “Lean on me,” he commands, though his tone is soft. “I’ll get you back to the inn. Don’t worry.”

Geralt isn’t worried, but he is…something. Jaskier is small and warm beneath him, but also reassuringly solid, and surprisingly strong. He does manage to hold Geralt up, even as Geralt continues to try to manage on his own (failing rather spectacularly time after time). Finally Geralt relents and leans against the bard, whose arms snake around his back to support him. A warm buzzing fills Geralt’s head.

Probably the potions.

Probably.

By the time they stumble back into the inn the sun is hanging low in the sky, despite their early start. The other patrons give them a wide berth, but Jaskier calls out to the innkeeper to send water up to their room for a bath. They make it up the stairs, Jaskier shoving against Geralt’s back some of the time, and finally push open the door to their shared room.

Jaskier helps Geralt into the chair and tugs off first one boot, then the other. The wound in Geralt’s shoulder is really beginning to throb, though. “Help me out of this armor?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier stands and nods. “What should I do?”

“There are buckles on the sides,” Geralt replies, lifting his good arm. Jaskier’s hands make quick work of the buckles, then he lifts the armor off. It burns as it leaves Geralt’s shoulder, and the smell of fresh blood assaults Geralt’s nostrils even as something warm begins to trickle down his arm.

Jaskier’s eyes have gone wide, staring at Geralt. Geralt looks down to find that his shirt is crimson with blood. Shit.

“There’s another bottle of Swallow on the table.” Geralt nods at the table still littered with potion-making supplies.

Jaskier hurries to the table, checking through the vials, and comes back with a bottle of golden liquid in his fist. Geralt swallows half the potion, then tugs a dagger from his belt and hands it to Jaskier. “I need you to cut my shirt away.”

Jaskier turns the dagger in his hand, grips it tightly, and gingerly slides it against the fabric, pulling it away from the seeping wound. His face is slightly pale in the dim light of the room when the extent of the injury is revealed.

Geralt turns to look at it himself. Well. It’s about as expected. The flesh is badly torn, all jagged, meaty edges, and bright glints of bone poke through in places. Nasty, to be sure, but not life-threatening. It needs cleaning, though, and probably stitching. And the rest of the Swallow potion he has available.

A knock at the door breaks his thoughts. Jaskier answers it, finding that it’s the water he asked for. Jaskier thanks the innkeeper, who passes in two buckets before returning to get more. Jaskier pours them into the metal tub in the corner as Geralt unties the laces of his trousers. It takes a few more trips, but finally the innkeeper brings enough that the bath is full. Jaskier tips in a steaming bucket and turns. “Easiest to clean the wound with you in the bath, I think.”

Geralt nods in agreement and stands, shoving at his trousers one-handed. Jaskier watches, his lip between his teeth, before taking a step toward Geralt. “May I help?” His voice is soft, his tone gentle.

Geralt nods, noticing that the color of Jaskier’s eyes is deeper, somehow, more vibrant. Jaskier’s tongue flicks out between his lips, and then his fingers slide under Geralt’s waistband and begin to tug downward, and something in Geralt’s belly knots—must be the wound—and then he’s naked and Jaskier is helping him step into the bath.

The bath is hot and soothing and familiar, even if the funny feeling fluttering around in Geralt’s chest is not, so he closes his eyes and leans his head back as the water laps over his skin.

“Want me to wash your wound for you?” Jaskier’s voice trembles, and he clears his throat.

Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him. “Will that be all right?”

Jaskier merely nods and dips a cloth into the bath. “Um.” He eyes Geralt’s face. “I expect this might hurt a bit.”

He wrings water over the wound, and yes, it _does_ fucking hurt, but it’s a good kind of hurt, a cleansing pain. Geralt closes his eyes and leans his head back again. “Thanks.”

“Oh.” A bit of Jaskier’s normal timbre returns to his voice. “Well. You’re quite welcome.” He bathes the wound some more, sometimes making small noises at what must be a truly gory sight, and the feeling in Geralt’s chest twists each time, connected to the pain, yes, but also connected to the noises in Jaskier’s throat, somehow. Geralt swallows several times, hoping to quell the feeling—after nearly a hundred years hunting monsters he would have thought he’d have felt everything there was to feel in the aftermath of a fight, and he’s a bit unsettled that he still has more to learn.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, “I think this needs stitching.”

Geralt glances at the wound, now clean and fully visible, the raw edges of the meat of his shoulder sparkling in the lamplight. “There’s needle and thread in my bags,” he replies. The last of the Swallow potion sits in its vial near the bath, so Geralt uncorks it and pours it over the wound, mildly detached from the sting as the potion bubbles and froths.

Something turns in his brain, some niggling knowledge trying to connect between synapses. Jaskier returns with needle and thread, his face determined. “I’ve never done this,” he declares. “Tell me what to do.”

“Heat the needle in a flame before you poke me with it. Then just pinch the skin together and sew.”

Jaskier does as he’s told, sitting beside the bath, his tongue poking between his lips as he pinches Geralt’s wound closed and pushes the needle through skin. The fluttery feeling reawakens in Geralt’s chest, and now he knows it can’t just be the wound—he can barely feel the needle or thread as they slide through his flesh. But he can feel Jaskier’s nimble fingers, can feel the heat of his body even despite the warm bath, can hear the quick pounding of his heart as he focuses on tending to Geralt, and can look at nothing else, nothing at all but his pink tongue occasionally curling as he pulls the thread taught.

Oh. Oh fuck.

Geralt closes his eyes and pinches his nose between the fingers of his good hand. Jaskier draws in a sharp breath. “Did I hurt you?” He stops his work, his fingers falling still on Geralt’s arm.

“No.” Geralt sighs. “No, you’re doing quite well. Please continue.”

Jaskier resumes his task but Geralt can hear him swallow hard. “Then what’s wrong?”

Geralt turns this question over in his mind. What, indeed? That he allowed this fool human to follow him in the first place? That he lulled himself into a sense of security because drowners and nekkers and harpies hadn’t managed to make off with him? That he barely put up a fight when the vulnerable, human man tagged along while Geralt stalked a fucking fiend? That if Geralt had been a fraction of a second slower, if he’d let his focus waver even the tiniest bit, Jaskier would have been impaled on the beast’s horns, would be cold and lifeless on the ground instead of sitting here beside Geralt, his brow furrowed in worry? That his touch on Geralt’s skin is rousing some feeling in Geralt’s chest, and until today Geralt didn’t even know he could feel such a thing, much less that it was somehow connected to Jaskier?

What’s wrong, indeed?

“I’m fine.” It’s a poor lie, Geralt knows it, and Jaskier knows it. Jaskier pulls the thread into a knot and sets the needle aside. Two lute-calloused fingers turn Geralt’s chin to face him. “You’re not fine. Talk to me, Geralt.”

The feeling in Geralt’s chest spreads, uncurling and slipping down his body, sending tingling warmth into his fingers and toes. This soft, vulnerable human, who by all rights should have run off long ago, who should have at least shown half a hint of fear when he looked into Geralt’s night-black eyes, who should have recoiled at the violence and death Geralt dragged behind him, who has seen Geralt at his most monstrous and should fucking know enough to _stay the fuck away_ —looks into Geralt’s eyes without a trace of fear or disgust or disdain. His expression shows only worry and tenderness and something altogether softer that Geralt dares not name.

The feeling in Geralt’s chest rises into his throat, constricting it as he chokes out the words. “I almost lost you.”

Jaskier’s lips tick into a half smile. “Oh.” His fingers flutter against Geralt’s skin. “But you didn’t. I’m still here.”

He could be anywhere, with anyone, showered in wealth and fame and lovers, sleeping on feather beds and wearing fine silks and sipping aged wines, and yet here he is, stitching up Geralt’s wounds and prodding at his feelings. Geralt’s brows knit. “Why?”

Jaskier’s brows rise into his hair. “Because you saved me, of course.”

“No, I mean…” Geralt shakes his head. “Why are you with me?”

“Where else would I be?” Jaskier runs a thumb along Geralt’s jaw, his touch soft.

Synapses fire all at once in Geralt’s brain, all of them sending different signals, because no, Jaskier is soft and sweet and good and absolutely adored, he could have anyone he wanted—and often does (Geralt tries not to think about the herbalist whose scent still lingers on Jaskier’s skin)—and there is no reason at all that he would want Geralt, a near-monster hired to kill monsters, a tool good for nothing but slaughter, and yet here Jaskier is, touching Geralt with a softness Geralt has never known, a gentle touch no brothel can sell, his blue eyes bright with worry, searching Geralt’s face as if looking for an answer.

So Geralt decides to see if he can make sense of everything all at once, to give Jaskier the answer he doesn’t dare to hope Jaskier wants, and he leans forward into Jaskier’s touch, bringing his face close to the bard’s, closing the distance between them until they inhale each other’s breaths.

And Jaskier finishes the gesture, brushing his lips lightly against Geralt’s, then pressing closer, sliding his tongue into Geralt’s mouth.

A ferocious instinct fires deep in Geralt’s belly. He wraps a hand around Jaskier’s waist and drags him bodily into the bath, water sloshing over the sides, and settles the bard in his lap. The movement has no grace or delicacy, but it has fucking results, because Jaskier, after an initial squeak of surprise, moans deeply into Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt becomes fantastically aware of Jaskier’s hard cock pressed against him through waterlogged clothes, his own arousal pressing hard against the curve of Jaskier’s ass.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls into the curve of Jaskier’s neck, nipping at the soft skin there, and Jaskier whimpers, making Geralt’s cock twitch with need. Geralt kisses every bit of Jaskier he can reach, savoring the salty-sweet taste of him on his tongue. Jaskier’s mouth, free of Geralt’s kiss, is now back to its usual habits, spewing a stream of words, only some of which are coherent thoughts.

“Oh, gods, Geralt, I had no idea you— _oh fuck, yes_ —why didn’t you ever say— _oh, please, that’s good, oh yes_ —fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long, and you just— _mmmmm, right there_ —is your arm all right, does it hurt when— _all the gods’ balls, I can’t_ —”

Geralt captures his mouth in a kiss again, swallowing his words, and Jaskier twines fingers through Geralt’s hair, the tug of them igniting his scalp. Geralt’s fingers work their way to the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, and fuck, there are about a thousand of them and only one of Geralt’s hands is working properly at the moment. He pulls away from Jaskier’s mouth to study the problem, and considers simply ripping the garment off, but his thoughts must show plainly on his face, because Jaskier rushes to speak again.

“No, don’t you dare! This cost a week’s worth of tavern ballads and the stitching is very fine. Leave off!” He swats at Geralt’s hand. “I’ll do it myself.” His fingers slide out of Geralt’s hair, leaving tracks of fire in their wake, and swiftly unbutton the row of pearls. Geralt tugs the doublet open to reveal Jaskier’s chemise underneath, wet and clinging to his body, nearly transparent. Although Geralt has seen Jaskier naked many times, the tease of the hair on his chest plastered half-visible under the shirt makes Geralt ache with longing, and he pulls Jaskier roughly to him, kissing him fiercely. His hands slide the doublet off Jaskier’s shoulders as his tongue slides into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier responds by pressing his body hard against Geralt, one hand dipping below the water to wrap slender fingers around Geralt’s cock. Geralt gasps and pulls away slightly, still half-unbelieving that Jaskier is sitting in his lap, actually stroking his cock, his eyes shining blue as a summer sky, his lips crimson. Yet here he is, truly, his strokes long and tight, and if they weren’t in this tub they’d both be smeared with Geralt’s sticky need.

“Will you come for me, darling?” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s hips thrust hard up into Jaskier’s fist of their own accord. Jaskier’s lips stretch in a wide smile and his voice grows husky and deep. “Yes, that’s it, my beautiful witcher, let me make you feel good, let me make you come.” His strokes come harder and faster, the press of his fingers tight against Geralt’s cock, the weight of his body solid against Geralt’s hips. The flutter in Geralt’s chest moves into his belly and then lower into his groin as he looks deep into Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt’s breath comes short and then stops entirely, and he tips his head back and growls as he shoots thickly into the bath, his fingers curled over the edges of the tub.

“Oh, gods, Geralt, you are absolutely incredible,” Jaskier breathes as he surges upward, water sheeting off him, and smothers Geralt with a kiss. Geralt’s breath is still short, his chest heaving from the effects of Jaskier’s touch, but he deepens the kiss anyway, his tongue finding all the hot, wet recesses of Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier presses hard against Geralt’s chest, the fabric of his chemise billowing around him, and suddenly all the clothing, all the barriers between his skin and Geralt’s is too much. Geralt tugs the sopping shirt up and over Jaskier’s head, soaking his hair in the process. Droplets fall from his wet curls, framing his face, and the flutter is back in Geralt’s chest. But now Jaskier is standing, his weight moving off Geralt, tugging at his trousers, kicking them off under the water.

The sight of him, naked and dripping, the head of his cock bobbing out of the water, the droplets falling from his hair, and his sparkling eyes never leaving Geralt’s face sends the fluttering through all of Geralt’s body. He stands and scoops Jaskier into his arms, being careful to take most of the bard’s weight on his good shoulder, and steps out of the bath, delighted at the gasps this elicits from Jaskier.

Geralt walks to the bed, and although he wants to gingerly lay Jaskier down, his shoulder is already protesting, so he opts instead for tossing him roughly down and climbing on top of him. The buck of Jaskier’s hips and the moan he makes into Geralt’s mouth say that this wasn’t a terrible idea.

Grinning, Geralt trails kisses down Jaskier’s neck, stopping at his shoulder. He frowns at the bruise there. “Are you hurt?” he asks, ready to stop, to tend to Jaskier’s wounds, but Jaskier only laughs. “You knocked me flat on my back, Geralt. I’m a bit bruised. But I’m all right.”

Geralt grins back, and returns to kissing a trail down Jaskier’s torso, the hair there tickling his lips. Jaskier’s hips grind against Geralt’s chest as his kisses travel lower, so that by the time Geralt reaches his cock the tip is glistening with sticky moisture. Geralt flicks his tongue over it and Jaskier cries out, arching his back. Geralt licks the shaft, slowly, and Jaskier thrashes beneath him, hands curling against sheets, feet kicking uselessly at nothing. Then Geralt opens his mouth and slides it down Jaskier’s cock, and the moan that issues from the bard’s lips is nearly a song.

Geralt could do this forever, give up hunting monsters and just stay here the rest of his days, running his tongue and lips up and down Jaskier’s shaft, listening to the breathy, hungry noises he makes, feeling his muscles tense and bunch beneath Geralt’s hands. But Jaskier’s cock is growing even harder, his back arching high, so Geralt hums low in his throat and Jaskier, gasping, fills his mouth, spurting hard and grabbing handfuls of Geralt’s hair.

Geralt slides his mouth off Jaskier’s cock and swallows, looking up at Jaskier’s face. Jaskier’s hands, still entwined in Geralt’s hair, tug him up, and soon he is lying across the bard, Jaskier pressing his mouth against Geralt’s, sliding his tongue over Geralt’s teeth. It is enough, right now, to feel Jaskier’s skin against his own, to taste him in his mouth, to hear the soft sighs of his breath, to smell the lustful scent of him, to look into his aquamarine eyes. For a time they lie like this, pressed together, hands and mouths exploring each other. But Geralt’s need soon makes itself known again, and even Jaskier is once again hard. Geralt reaches over the edge of the bed into the bags. His fingers close around one of the bottles of oil he used making potions.

“Jaskier,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s sweet mouth, “will you let me fuck you?”

“Oh, gods, yes,” Jaskier replies, arching his back, pressing his cock against Geralt.

Keeping his eyes on Jaskier, Geralt coats his finger in oil, lifts one of the bard’s legs, and slides the finger into him. Jaskier’s eyes widen at the touch, then flutter closed, his lips curling into a smile. He rocks his hips, and the sight of it sends Geralt’s head spinning. Geralt adds another finger, pushing both deep inside, and Jaskier presses hard against him, opening quickly.

“Are you ready for me?” Geralt asks. Jaskier nods, and Geralt knows he isn’t, not quite, but he will be, if Geralt goes slowly.

So slowly he goes, slick with oil, watching the head of his cock disappear inside Jaskier, who whimpers and moans and writhes with his lip between his teeth. Geralt pauses to let Jaskier adjust, and to let himself feel the pinch around the most sensitive part of him, then presses steadily further. Jaskier’s eyes fly open and lock onto Geralt’s, and they stay like this, looking into each other’s eyes, as Geralt begins to slide in and out, watching Jaskier’s reaction to each thrust. Finally he can push all the way in, and when he buries himself fully in Jaskier the bard’s own cock twitches. Geralt curls his fingers around it and strokes as he moves his hips, the last of the oil on his fingers smoothing away the friction.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, “I’ve never come twice this quickly, I don’t know if I can…”

“You can.” Geralt shifts his grip so that his thumb slides repeatedly over the bottom of Jaskier’s shaft and his fingers pull his foreskin back with each stroke. “You can come again for me.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and he nods and begins to roll his hips with Geralt’s rhythm. The feeling of Jaskier grinding hard against Geralt’s cock shoots fire up his spine, and if Jaskier were anyone else, Geralt would give in, would rut until he saw stars, would fuck himself empty, but his body is used to discipline and this is no exception, so he holds back, keeps control, even as the flush in Jaskier’s cheeks spreads down his neck. The scent off Jaskier’s skin changes, deepens, and his cock throbs in Geralt’s hand.

“Yes, Jaskier, that’s right. Good. Come for me.”

Jaskier cries out, a sound almost like a wail of pain, and spills into Geralt’s fist, his head thrown back, his hands gripping the sheets. Geralt releases the control he has held and pumps hard into Jaskier, throbbing as he explodes inside him.

Geralt collapses onto the bed beside Jaskier, the pain in his shoulder once again making itself known. He winces, and Jaskier’s light fingers push him onto his back. “Careful,” he says, a smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t want you to undo all my hard work.”

Geralt gazes up at him. “True. It’s good work.”

Jaskier flushes with the praise, remarkable given how pink his skin is already, and snuggles into the crook of Geralt’s uninjured arm. For a while they lie like that, stroking gentle fingers over each other’s skin.

Finally, Jaskier breaks the silence. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Geralt frowns at him. Does he already regret this?

“For what happened with the fiend. You told me not to look, and I tried not to, really. I was watching you, and you were incredible, but then the thing turned so quickly and all I could see was that eye…” He shudders as he trails off.

Pulling him closer, Geralt sighs. “It’s all right. Fiends are fearsome, and it doesn’t take much to get caught in their gaze. I should have prepared you better.”

“Well. Thank you for saving my life.”

Geralt kisses Jaskier’s hair. “Of course.”

He slips out of bed only long enough to turn down the lamps. By the time he climbs back under the blanket, Jaskier is softly snoring. He smiles as he closes his eyes, wrapped in the warm scent of the bard.

Geralt’s dream begins as a pleasant memory of all that just occurred, his mind replaying the press of Jaskier’s lips, the arch of his back, the moans in his throat, the throb of his orgasm. But then the scene flickers, twined with older memories—desire, release, boundaries crossed that could never be put back in place, and Geralt is once again in a market square, his blade leveled at the object of his desire, and the kiss of his lips is replaced with the kiss of steel against steel. Geralt’s feet dance as his blade whirls, blocking, parrying, but his opponent comes faster, harder, pushing him back and back. He is fighting, trying to subdue without injury, but she is fast, too fast, her blade whicking through the air, and Geralt cannot help but fight, because it is in his blood, in his body, it is all he has ever known. His blade pierces flesh, the strike true and final, and her eyes blink up at him as her blood spills out of her throat, only those eyes are a startling, clear blue, and Jaskier’s lips move wordlessly as blood spills out of them, his brows drawn together as Geralt lowers him to the ground. And then he is gone.

Geralt wakes drenched in cold sweat, shaking and gasping for breath. Jaskier is beside him, and Geralt gulps for air as he listens hard for Jaskier’s heartbeat, finding it steady and even.

A dream. Only a dream. Geralt lies back against the pillow, taking deep breaths and willing his racing heart to slow its churn. It had not even felt real, even as he slept he knew it was false, but its promise was all too true. He had watched Renfri bleed out before his eyes, just as he had watched so many who died by his blade. Would Jaskier be next?

Geralt turns to the sleeping bard in the dark and rests his body close behind him, one arm around his chest. Jaskier shifts and murmurs, settling back against him, the warm length of him pressed against Geralt. Geralt inhales the scent of his hair, suddenly ferociously afraid of what it means to have him, and what it would mean to lose him.

The rest of the night passes in a dim haze. Geralt never quite sleeps, instead merely closing his eyes and feeling the warm, solid presence of Jaskier next to him. When sunlight begins to lighten the room, Geralt rises.

His sword was not properly cleaned before being put away—that’s the first thing to tend to. Then he must check his wound—the stitches are tight, and the healing is progressing nicely. The room is an utter mess—remnants of Geralt’s bloody shirt on the floor, potions ingredients strewn about, and clothes absolutely everywhere. Geralt tidies, cleans, and mends as the sun climbs higher.

Finally, as the room’s chill is fading under the sun’s warmth, Jaskier wakes. He blinks, yawning, as he sits up, watching Geralt finish his tasks. “Been up long?” he finally asks.

“Mm.”

Jaskier grins wickedly. “Maybe you’d like to come back to bed for a bit?”

Geralt stops, looks sideways at him. “Contract’s not done.”

Jaskier blinks, his smile falling. “All right, but…what’s the rush?”

Of course. Of course Jaskier would think, because of one night of giddy sex, that everything would be different. As if monsters didn’t still prowl the Continent. As if men didn’t wait for the first opportunity to stone a witcher in the street when he put a single toe out of line. “I don’t leave contracts unfinished.”

Sighing, Jaskier pushes back the blanket and begins pulling on clothing. “All right, grumpy pants. Let’s go finish this contract. Then I’m dragging you back to bed and keeping you there for days.”

Well. Geralt’s heard worse plans.

Geralt’s armor is shredded, not to mention his shoulder, so he’s forced to leave in only his shirtsleeves, his sword strapped across his back. Jaskier trots along beside him, and he’s actually fucking _humming_ , as though they were going on a picnic rather than hunting down the pack of ghouls drawn to the corpses the fiend left in its wake. Geralt shoots him a look but he just grins happily back, and the flutter reawakens in Geralt’s chest.

_Fuck_. He may have slain a fiend, but a nest of ghouls is no joke, and he’s hampered by his ruined shoulder. “Jaskier,” he says, “please, stay back this time. You’ve seen me fight ghouls before. You don’t need to watch this fight.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve seen Geralt _the witcher_ fight ghouls before,” Jaskier says, nearly skipping with joy, “but I haven’t yet seen Geralt _my lover_ fight ghouls, and I’ll wager it’s a sight not to be missed.”

“It’s the same sight,” Geralt replies. “I’m serious. Stay back.”

“Of course, darling, whatever you say.” The lilt in Jaskier’s voice says he means not a single word of that sentence. Geralt rolls his eyes.

As they approach the fiend’s lair, the scent of decay grows heavy on the wind. Even Jaskier wrinkles his nose in disgust. Geralt can make out the faint scratching noises of the ghouls, still hidden from view behind the crest of the hill. He throws out a hand, pushing Jaskier back by his chest.

Geralt drops into a defensive stance, pulling his sword from its sheath. He creeps forward, his footsteps light so as not to alert the beasts. His ears pick up Jaskier’s movements behind him. The fool is creeping along behind Geralt, damn him. This close, a whispered warning will alert the creatures. Instead, Geralt turns and shakes his head at Jaskier, who merely stares back with wide eyes.

In this moment, the first ghoul strikes. Its claws sink into the flesh of Geralt’s injured shoulder, unprotected as it is. His stitches pop open, blood spewing afresh, the pain blinding him for a moment. He howls and stabs straight into the belly of the beast, ripping it open with a swipe. But the pack is alert now, the rest of them speeding over the hill. Behind Geralt, Jaskier gasps and falls backward, his ass hitting the ground with a resounding _whump_. Geralt stands over him, readying his blade as the bard scrambles backward.

The next ghoul meets the point of his sword, and then another, and another, and Geralt is once again falling into the steps of the dance of death. He cuts down one, and then another, keeping an eye on Jaskier, who has finally shown half a lick of sense and is stumbling backward away from the fight.

But Geralt has allowed himself to be distracted watching the bard, and a ghoul sinks fangs into his thigh, sending hot white pain up his body. With a shout Geralt lops off its head, and its bite slackens, releasing his flesh. Down one arm and one leg, Geralt fights bloody, tired, and sloppy, but another ghouls falls to his sword, and then another.

Finally, it is finished. Geralt falls to his knees amid the bodies, leaning heavily on his sword for support, one arm dangling nearly useless by his side. As he heaves to catch his breath, Jaskier sinks down next to him.

“Goodness, I really thought you might not have that one,” he gasps.

Geralt glares. If it weren’t for Jaskier, Geralt would have noticed the first ghoul before it sank teeth into him. Fuck, if it weren’t for Jaskier, Geralt might have finished the fight with the fiend without taking a wound. “Why,” Geralt growls, “did you not fucking listen to me?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen, blue stark against white. “I did! I stayed back!”

“You didn’t.” Geralt is dizzy with pain, with anger. “I told you to stay away yesterday. I told you to stay back today. You never fucking _listen_.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier stammers, “I-I just—”

“Why are you always exactly where you don’t belong?” Images flash in Geralt’s mind—Jaskier stumbling backward from the pack of ghouls, Jaskier dazed and helpless before the fiend, Jaskier bound as Filavandrel’s boot connects with his chest, Renfri’s blade whipping at Geralt, Renfri’s blood pooling in the dirt around the would Geralt gave her—

“How long are you going to make me put up with you?” The words tumble from Geralt’s lips, stinging as they fall, ringing in the air.

Jaskier blinks at him, his mouth hanging open, his brows drawn up and pinched together in the middle. “Make you…put up with me?”

“You are always there, always distracting me. I don’t get a moment’s peace.”

Jaskier’s eyes have grown bright. “But last night—”

“That was a mistake. One I don’t intend to repeat.” Geralt flares his nostrils as he presses his lips together.

Jaskier, his brows drawn together, the corners of his mouth turned down, reaches a hand toward Geralt. “At least let me help you—”

“Don’t touch me.” Geralt flinches away from him. Jaskier looks as though Geralt has slapped him across the face. “Just get out of here. Go away. Leave me in peace,” Geralt barks.

Jaskier’s face crumples. His eyes flit back and forth between Geralt’s, but whatever he is seeking in Geralt’s gaze, he doesn’t find. Geralt steels his will, forces his gaze to be hard and cold. He very nearly regrets what he has said, but he sees it take root in Jaskier’s brain, in his heart, and he knows that this, more than anything, might keep Jaskier away. This might stop him from following Geralt, from returning to him again and again, despite the danger.

And Jaskier _must_ stop, must stay away, because he has become a vulnerability, and to a witcher, a vulnerability is a liability, and a liability is death. Geralt’s or Jaskier’s, Geralt doesn’t know which, but one must certainly follow shortly behind the other, and he won’t allow that to happen. Not if he can stop it.

So he watches, face impassive, as Jaskier stands and brushes off his trousers. “All right, then, Geralt,” he says. “Good luck on the Path.” He turns and walks away, and Geralt catches the scent of his tears on the wind before he even makes it back to the road.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Wanna follow my fic? I'm on tubmblr: [thetardigrape](https://thetardigrape.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Kudos and comments always appreciated!


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